Metamorphosis
by BittersweetAnne
Summary: Hermione lives through hell, and someone unexpected helps her put the pieces back together. M for rape, violence, drug use, masochism and smut.
1. Chapter 1

**Metamorphosis**

A/N: I own none of these characters, I just own the plot. And I'm only saying it once.

She was walking down the corridor, her heart pounding and her stomach doing flip flops. She knew she was going to see him, her friend, and he lit her up inside. She loved sitting next to him in Potions, and how his leg would just brush hers, and he'd look at her with those big green eyes. She knew he was everyone else's savior, but he was her friend, and her crush. And he had asked her to meet him in one of the abandoned classrooms here on the fourth floor under the pretext of talking about something he was having trouble with in some class, but she had the sneaking suspicion he was going to do something more interesting. Maybe kiss her. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, and then it was difficult for her to focus on where she was, she was so excited and full of anticipation. She was looking around, trying to regain her bearings and find the damn door, when she felt it.

It was a hand, grabbing a huge handful of her rich brown curls, getting a good, fast grip on the back of her head and suddenly pulling. Hard.

She felt the hand pull down, and she was suddenly slammed to the floor. Her mind was racing, and every bone in her body was telling her to scream, but she was frozen, no sound would come out. And it wasn't the influence of a Silencing spell either; she just couldn't make a sound. It wouldn't come out. She felt her body frantically struggling, grabbing and scratching at the hand, wrist, and arm that held her, and was dragging her from the hall into a room. Her heartbeat was pounding in her veins, she could feel the blood rushing around within her body as if her very skin were holding back seawater crashing into cliffs, and it was sounding just as loudly in her ears. The pulsing in her ears was not loud enough, however, to distract her from the present: her body being picked up off the floor and shoved to the front of the classroom, towards the teacher's desk. She was suddenly spun about and her back was slammed into the desk edge, she was finally facing her attacker. She knew those eyes. He was looking down at her body, where he had a firm grip on her hipbones, digging his thumbnails into the soft flesh of her stomach through her shirt. She let out a tiny whimper, a mewl of protest against his hands and their movement to move her robes to the side, sliding up under her crisp white button down shirt. He looked up, his eyes boring into her own at this sound and scowled, the back of his free hand smashing into her cheek before she saw it coming. The sting of his slap tingling and prickling the skin on that whole side of her face. Suddenly her mind woke up, thoughts racing through it seeming so different than the deafening silence of the moments before:

_He's going to rape me. I can't let this happen. Scream. Why can't I scream?! Screaming would bring help, someone would hear, someone would come help me, someone would save me from this, from him. NO, screaming would draw attention, someone would come, someone would see, someone would know that this is happening to me. I can't scream anyway, my mouth isn't working. Oh God-_

His hand was moving. He had unbuttoned her shirt; he was tugging at the button closure on that lovely plaid kilt, her favorite part of their uniforms.

_I can't even move. I could fight him off, I could run, I could escape. But my legs feel like lead, I can't reach for my wand. My body isn't listening to me: RUN! RUN! RUN!-_

He gave up on the skirt. She could only stand there, standing as stiff as a board and trembling violently. He seemed angry at his inability to get her skirt off. Her back-handed her again, not seeming to care that the right side of her face was already turning black and blue. Her mind went silent again after the second blow, he pushed her down onto the flat of the desk and spread her knees, prying her thighs apart with his fingertips, pushing the offensive skirt up and put of the way. When she moved to sit up again, her one and only attempt at escape little more than a twitch, he slammed his fist into her ribs, and she heard the crunch, the screaming sound of snapping bones. She gasped in pain, sucking in air, trying to imagine herself anywhere but here. She felt him pull off her knickers, she vaguely heard him unzip his pants, but her eyes were blurred with tears and her mouth was full of blood from where his second blow had split her lip. She suddenly felt him, pushing into her flesh, an almost tangible sound of ripping flesh and the hot surge of her own blood rushing from within her down her leg. Her heart was pounding, but she couldn't see his face anymore, so this couldn't possibly be real. The pain within her, the feeling that she'd been filled with hot metal, and that it was pushing up through her body, drilling through her very soul and threatening to puncture right through her at any second, as if all the blood and pain would burst right up put of her mouth. The smell of his skin and sweat and what he was doing to her was flooding her nose, making her gag, making her stomach turn and flip, she felt as if she might throw up. Then suddenly, the pain stopped, the hot metal was taken out, and let out a silent sigh of relief-until she felt the hot spray of sticky viscous liquid on the inside of her thigh. She couldn't stop the tears. The ocean that was her heartbeat had become tears, and it was flooding out; but silently now. And she couldn't hear her heart anymore either.

_It's stopped. I'm dead._

He pulled her up by her shoulders, but he was pointedly avoiding making eye contact with her now. He spoke quietly, and hissed, as if all this was her fault, her doing.

"Clean yourself up Hermione."

She looked up from her body just in time to meet his eyes, the color of fresh grass. He turned and walked out. She couldn't move for a moment, unsure that her legs would hold her upright. She just sat there and stared off into space, so unsure of everything that had just happened. When she spoke it was quiet, broken, and terrified:

"I really am dead."


	2. Chapter 2

**Inhuman**

Hermione eased off the desk carefully, her body sore all over, and the drilling feeling between her legs increased. She gasped a little, attempting to adjust to the pain, and hobbled down the corridor towards her room. The Heads Common room stank of cigar smoke and brandy; Theodore Nott had been holding one of his parties again: a bunch of elitist males sitting around playing wizard's chess discussing politics, advantageous marriages, and the importance of blood lineage. Hermione could barely stomach the smell of the sweet smoke, and was struggling to get to her room without being seen, bruised, slightly bloodied, and terrified. Nott was asleep on the couch, but she could hear his breathing, his male breathing, and immediately **his** ragged breathing rose back into her memory, and she had to escape. She limped as quickly as she could into the bathroom and uncontrollably vomited into the sink. She felt disgusting.

_I need to shower. I need to get his smell off, his eyes off, his hands off of my fucking body. NOW._

The sound of the water eased her mind a little, the rushing in her imagination was the epitome of clean. The steam began to cloud the room and she was inhaling deeply, trying to ignore the smell of **his** cologne, her blood, and the smell of sex. The hot water stung her skin as she stepped in, stinging in the open cuts on her face and causing all the bruises to ache madly with each impact from every tiny droplet of water. She hissed quietly at the pain, and stretched her arms over her head attempting to ease out the tight muscles in her back and shoulders, veins still tense with fear. She fumbled around for the little scrub brush she normally used to clean dirt from her hands after Herbology, and scrubbed madly at where he had touched her stomach and ribs, then she leaned half way over and scrubbed the inside of her thighs, where he had pried her legs apart, until they were red and raw, and the hot water stung in what was practically an open wound. She looked down, satisfied at the pain, the sting, that maybe she had gotten his essence off of her skin finally. She hesitated before standing up straight in the shower again, the water beginning to go cold, and she flinched a little again. It hurt everywhere. She stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel and moved toward the mirror, out of pure horror and sick fascination; she inspected each and every one of her injuries in the mirror. The right side of her face was almost entirely splotchy black and purple, the colors of the bruise heavier in some places than others. She looked at her soiled clothes on the floor, and walked out in to the common room holding them as far away from her body as she could reach. She stared into the still roaring fire for a moment before throwing them in, destroying the evidence of all this, and pondering for a moment throwing herself in after her clothes. She stood there, wrapped in her towel staring at the flames for a little while until a tiny sound, the click of a shoe heel caught her attention. She spun around, and there stood Draco Malfoy, a few feet away, staring at her. At first his expression had been one of surprise, like he'd been caught at something or she shouldn't have heard him, and then when his eyes grazed her face she heard him stop breathing, and she saw first horror in his eyes, and then what she could have sworn was concern. But then, seeing his grey eyes, and knowing what he was, what he had for parts, what he was capable of doing to her, all the fear and bile rose back up in her throat, and she bolted back to her room, locking the door and immediately collapsing to the floor. That's when the first tears stared to flow, quietly at first. Soon her body was racked with sobs, so hard that she could barely breathe, and it felt as if her lungs were being crushed within her, by her. She managed to crawl across the floor and pull herself into bed, still crying, still mourning whatever she had lost—she still wasn't sure just what that was yet…her virginity? Her dignity? Her cleanliness? Her purity? **Her soul?**

She wouldn't get out of bed the next morning, nor for the next three days. She sent a short note to Madame Pompfrey, saying she had a little flu, and that she was taking care of it herself.

Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table that next morning, and at every meal following, staring at the empty seat at the Gryffindor table, knowing full well what he'd seen. His curiosity was getting to him, he needed to know what had happened.

A/N: I know these are really short right now, but these chapters are leading up to the good stuff. And also, it's finals week for me here, so I only have enough time to write for an hour, which makes for this-length chapters. They'll get longer the further we get into the story and the more free time I have!


	3. Chapter 3

**Insatiable**

"Nott, I need to stop by your quarters after classes today, I believe I lost one of my rings amongst your couch cushions."

Malfoy's voice slithered out of his mouth, deep and resonating, not looking away from the potion he was working as he spoke. Theodore didn't blink at all, but did look questioningly to Draco's hands, spotting indeed, the possibly paler, indent of a missing piece of jewelry. He looked back to the Star Anise that he was crushing with a mortar and pestle.

"Of course. Which one was it anyway?"

"One from mother's side of the family…Her father's signet."

This was of course false. Malfoy had the ring safely trapped in a tiny satin box in his pants pocket, too worried about losing it to just leave it loose. He wanted to get into the Head's Common Room though, and his only available key to that room was Nott. The damn portrait wouldn't let him in without Nott, even though he knew the password. It was some portrait of a Head Girl from the past, from Ravenclaw, whose limp rust colored hair and twitchy attitude made Draco dislike even her preserved countenance immediately.

Hermione had come out of hiding that morning, her presence at the Griffyndor table had not gone unnoticed, and true to her lie of a flu--she looked terrible. Her skin had become paler even than Malfoy's, a fine, clear porcelain under which you could make out the distinct blues and purples of veins. But even those colors looked lackluster; every thing about her seemed dulled. Her eyes were glazed over, not moving, not darting around observing in their usual fashion. The bruising, the swollen black nad purple cut up face that he'd seen just a few nights before was gone, and he knew full well a bruise like that did not go away that fast.

_She's using a masking charm to cover her wounds…Why? If she was attacked shouldn't it be all over the wizard world by now that someone beat up Gryffindor Princess Granger?_

She seemed completely uninterested in her food, not like her usual self at all. There was a distinct purple under her eyes, and her eyelids seemed swollen, either from lack of sleep or crying, or both. Her hair was not exploding with bright clean curls today, but instead it looked flat, unwashed, and pulled back into a braid that had obviously been slept on. Her robes weren't crisp and fresh looking, but wrinkled and scrubby looking. There was something else wrong about her robes that he couldn't quite put his finger on…

He noticed these things all the time, before, and more so now, because everything she did in the past had managed to irritate him in some way. If she observed too much, he wanted to be left alone, if she walked to close it was because she made him uncomfortable, if she looked him straight in the eyes, he found it easier to insult her and make her turn away than admit that he wondered what she saw. When she ate she ate too healthily and her rigidity to principle aggravated him, when she sat in class she sat up to straight, she never rebelled, she never relaxed, she never let anything go unnoticed, unanswered, unexplored, untouched—except for him of course.

_Not that I want her to._

But now, it was all gone: the curiosity, the anger, the incredulous look she usually gave Potthead and Weasel when they fucked something up, the ambition. She was blank. She fidgeted in her seat between the Weasel and the Weaselette, Potter sitting across from her, head down as if staring at his plate. Draco noticed offhandedly that Granger wasn't looking at the Boy-Saint either. Maybe they'd had a spat. Potter's head shot up all the sudden, and she froze, then suddenly flew out of her seat and made a flat out run for the door. That's when Draco realized what was wrong with her robes: she was wearing baggy Muggle jeans that were usually worn by boys, and the rest of her school uniform and outer robes were hanging off her; she'd suddenly lost a substantial amount of weight in the last week. He didn't get up, even though his curious voice was screaming for him to follow. He'd figure it out later when he went up to Nott's room.

_Oh bloody fuck it Malfoy, you know you want to follow her._

He stood up and went out into the corridor, but she'd disappeared.

Hermione had gone to Snape's storeroom. She needed a Dreamless Sleep Draught, and she was most definitely not going to the Hospital Wing for it. She stole what she needed and retreated to the third floor bathroom, seeking solace in the sound of her gurgling potion and Myrtle's wailing. She felt like she could wail for fifty years too and maybe after that, she might feel better. She headed to class, but sat uninvolved all day, she couldn't react. Voices just seemed to float around her like visible beings, like miniature dementors all around her, and they scared her. When she finally made it back to the Heads Common Room, She bolted for her room and locked the door behind her, absentmindedly sat down to her homework and tried desperately to stick to her newest routine.

It was as her door slammed that Nott and Malfoy walked in, hearing the loud hollow click of her lock falling into place. Malfoy gave Nott a questioning look, one eyebrow arched and an aristocratic sneer on his face. Nott held up his hands and shook his head,

"She's been like that all week, locked in there, and always in the damn shower, but she never seems to get any bloody cleaner…went in this morning to absolutely no fucking hot water mate."

Malfoy didn't show any interest in this information, but his mind was buzzing. He asked Nott to get him a small glass of FireWhiskey, and set about "searching the couches." He reached into his pocket and secretly slipped the ring from its satin bed into the palm of his hand while Theodore wasn't facing him, and continued digging through the deep cushions of the Head Common Room furniture. When he heard the definite sound of the shower being switched on from the bathroom, he made coughed.

"Found it mate." He slipped the ring back on its appropriate finger, the large silver design of a tree with a tiny ruby near the middle, and turned to Nott, taking the FireWhiskey. He drank, and hissed a little at the feeling akin to ripping flesh within his throat. Eventually, sitting about with Nott, doing their homework in silence and drinking, the only sound in room was running water, the clinking of glasses set down on tables, and the almost unison scratching of quills. Suddenly the water shut off. A few moments later Granger emerged, her hair looking washed, and pulled suspiciously over one shoulder to hide the right side of her face, with half wet curls sticking to the skin of her neck and shoulders as she limped, yes, limped across the room in black sweatpants and a matching spaghetti strap top. She spoke quietly, her voice choking a little on the first word:

"Th-eodore, have you seen my bag? I'm sure I dropped it in here…"

Nott said nothing, acting as if he hadn't even heard her, but continued on with the essay for the Muggle Studies class he was being forced to take. She turned to address him again, and saw Draco stretched out across the couch on his side, like a black cat, and her gasp was enough to actually make Nott look up. He raised at eyebrow at her, her eyes now fixed on her feet, and her hair falling further into her face, she turned quickly towards the door, leaned over to grab her bag off the floor and moved as quickly as she could back to her room. Draco had seen her ankle in the process of her leaning over, the sweatpants moved up enough to display what he guessed was a bad break, all purple and swollen. Her hair had moved, the dark, wet curls rolling off her back to reveal a massive bruise between her shoulder blades all blackened and yellowed around the edges, and specifically, another small group of bruises on her left shoulder, four small bruises that looked as if created by fingertips dug into her flesh, complete with little cuts on each from fingernails. She reached down for her bag and revealed scratches on her arms—defense wounds…and others. Fresh red skin that looked as though it had been scrubbed until it bled a little. And she winced with every footfall, not just from the pain of her broken ankle, something else was wrong…

_I don't understand this…Someone did not only rough up Granger, as I'd thought. Someone attacked her. But why would she keep it a secret, why would she not go get Poppy to fix her up? _

He stood suddenly, packing up his bag, and nodded farewell to Nott,

"Your…roommate…of sorts, has lost the plot mate…if she ever had one, the little Mudblood." He gave a short hard laugh and excused himself. He had a letter to write. He returned to his room and wrote a letter to his mother, saying he was concerned for a female friend who seemed to be withdrawing from the world and he asked her if she knew of anything that could make a girl behave that way. His mother was the only person he trusted completely in the world, so when he ended the note with the fact that this poor girl had gone to great pains to hide her injuries and that he did not want anyone to know until he knew better how to handle it, he knew his mother would keep his confidence.

Hermione was just giving herself a dose of her new sleeping draught and tucking herself in, cocooning in the blankets as if they would somehow protect her if she had enough layers. She finally got some sleep without the whole thing repeating in her head, without seeing his eyes as he looked up at her at breakfast, without hearing people thinking he was so perfect, kind, and good. She slept without thinking at all. This Dreamless Sleep Draught was just what she needed.

It worked for a couple weeks. Then everything got worse…


	4. Chapter 4

**Correspondence:**

_Dear Draco, _

_You say this girl was brutally attacked and yet has not told anyone? She continues to hide her injuries and the extent to which she was hurt? If this is truly the case there are only a few possibilities as to the truth of her situation. Only one thing would make a girl hide and hurt in secret like that: shame. I fear that she was hurt, in a way that no one deserves to be hurt, and worse, by the way she is hiding it, by someone she knows. I trust that you understand my meaning, as I abhor the word too much to write it here, but I must insist that you treat this girl with the utmost sensitivity Draco. If I am right about what happened to her, she does not need any insult to add to her injuries, and I know how much you like to tease. Unfortunately, she may not trust you to help her. She may fear you, or scorn your help, but please, for my sake keep an eye on this girl and secretly see that she comes to no more harm. Offer your help to her, and be patient if she refuses it. _

_Please write me again soon and tell me how she is doing, for I am invested now, and will hope the best for her safety and healing. You should do your best; __do anything__, to help her Draco. She will need a trusted friend. _

_I love you my son, and I am proud that you would show such concern; it truly separates you from your late father. _

_Narcissa_

_**Rape.**_ The word bit into Draco's mind as he reread his mother's letter, trying to glean all the information out of it that she had described and yet never said outright. _Someone raped Hermione "Gryffindor Princess" Granger. Someone she knows_. Draco felt his hands crumpling the letter in rage, but he couldn't immediately understand why. He hated Granger, the Mudblood bitch irritated the hell out of him, but at the same time, someone had done something abhorrent to her, something that was despicable, and whoever had done it had betrayed her in doing it. It made his blood boil, the idea that a human being was capable of so maliciously hurting another. It was like his father, with no regard for human life or pain. He had never really been of this school of thought. Sure, he teased, he insulted, he hurt feelings, he lied, cheated, and manipulated, but he could never be so evil as to overpower, shame, and harm another person like that. A girl least of all; his mother had taught him better. His "father," Lucius, had a penchant for attacking and beating his mother, preferably in front of their young son, as if it was a lesson to be instilled. Draco hated it. There was many a time when he had wished he could have killed his father, if only to save his mother. This train of thought brought back to him his own strong self-loathing, because his own conception was speculated to have been rape. Narcissa had always taught him that these things were evil, malicious, criminal displays of power that would kill his soul. He was a mischievous boy, bitter and sharp-tongued, but he had always been thus. His bitterness arose from being the son of such a man, and expected by the entire world to follow in his footsteps. _Thank Merlin he's dead now; rotted away in Azkaban. _

Hermione wasn't sleeping. The Draught had stopped working a three nights before, the nightmares broke through. She had started writing it all down in a book she'd charmed to make the words invisible, much like Tom Riddle's. She wrote down every nightmare, every impact, every bruise, the sensation of her broken ankle. She'd found the charm to heal bones the day before and tried her best to fix it, but ankles and other joints were tricky. The bones still ground together, both excruciating, and loud. Hermione imagined everyone could hear the scraping from inside her ankle, and yet no one was willing to say out loud what had happened to her, no one was going to accuse their Savior of his crime. She was sure now that she feared him, and hated him, in a way she had never before hated any living thing. She was desperate for some way to shut her mind off, for some way to stop her nightmares and the repetitive, unwanted memories from interrupting her sleep, her denial, and her time in hiding.

She had heard rumors of some Slytherins having potions equivalent of Muggle drugs. She knew where to go. She needed something strong to make her sleep.

Draco was lounging in his usual position in the Slytherin Common Room, stretched out on a couch with a book in one hand and his other hand dangling over the edge, holding his tumbler of Firewhiskey. One of his companions, Blaise Zabini, a notoriously dark and wild young man was similarly strewn across the opposite couch, with a cigarette instead of Firewhiskey in his hand. Blaise was well known within Hogwarts as the peddler of all sorts of wizard potions, remedies, and products that were perfectly fine if used in tiny doses, but otherwise basically hack drugs. Draco knew enough about the Muggle world to known about their drugs, and to know that some of the things Blaise sold were the same products, only slightly magically enhanced. Blaise disgusted Draco to an extent, but mostly for his attitude, not what he sold to students. They came to the Slytherin door and would give a special knock, and Blaise would answer, exchange product for cash, and send them packing. It was convenient and quiet enough that it never interrupted Draco's studying or leisure time, so he really didn't care. He knew that Blaise's "clientele" came from all four houses, although mostly from the upper grade levels, and Blaise never discriminated against the money that they handed him. Draco was only thinking lightly about this, puzzling more over something he'd read, when the familiar knock came at the door: seven sharp raps. Blaise stood and answered it, and Draco could see past him enough to see someone with their robe hood pulled all the way up, unwilling to be seen even by Blaise. _A newcomer_, He thought, _obviously nervous_. The light, tiny sound of a soft, deep female voice floated into the room, but he thought little of it at first. Then he heard Blaise's short hard laugh as he slammed the door hard in her face. He spoke as if not really interested,

"A new one. Nervous. Who was it?" Blaise laughed again, and flopped back down before speaking, his voice grating and abrasive in the air,

"Bloody Mudblood Head Girl thinks I'm stupid and wants to catch me in the act, that's who! Fucking tart thinks she can come here and ask for something as if I won't recognize her voice if she covers her filthy face…"

"She wanted to buy something?!" Draco was amazed, and it showed in his voice. Then he bit back, laughing hard to cover his interest, and continued, "You're right mate, she probably would have gone running to bloody McGonagall and ratted you out or something."

But the knock came again. Blaise opened the door again, and seeing it was still her, threw it wide open. He dragged her inside by her robes and slammed the door again. She stood in the middle of the room, staring at Draco from under her hood, and turned to Blaise, she spoke with what sounded like strength, but Draco could hear the tiny tremor in her tone and he could see fresh terror in her eyes,

"Zabini, I'm serious, I need something to make me sleep. I don't care what it is." Blaise was smiling, warming up for what he was about to say, Draco could practically see his mind clicking and rehearsing every insult before he opened his mouth,

"You think I'm going to just give you it, you little Mudblood bitch?! Oh no, you came here trying to catch me at something for your beloved fucking administration and I'm not telling you spunk's worth!" He pause, and spoke quieter, but with a thousand times the malice, "…You're not worth selling anything to, you're money's just as dirty as your blood." She winced, took a deep breath, and started again. This time she punctuated her point by taking out a bag full of money, and tossing it to Blaise.

"Give me something that will knock me out, or I will run to the Headmaster like the little prissy bitch you think I am." Draco was impressed at her tone, but not with what she was doing. Blaise seemed sold on the point, and went to his room to get her stuff. She stood there, silent, Draco and her staring at each other. He noticed that her fingertips were shaking. The masking charm was still cast over her face, and now that she was fidgeting and pushing up her sleeves, he could tell she'd cast it over her arms as well. _What is she hiding there? And why is she here buying shit from him? Why didn't she tell_-

His reverie was interrupted by Blaise coming back into the room, two bags of some capsules and two bottles in his hands. He laid them on the table, and addressed Granger as if teaching a child,

"These small purple pills here will put you to sleep. The white ones will do the same job. The two combined should be enough for two weeks. This bottle is labeled as a contraceptive potion, but it's really something akin to Muggle LSD, so you'll hallucinate and see fun colors and things. I tossed that one in as a sample something you might like. This last bottle is just a potion to pep you up in the morning and cover up the hangover type effects of everything else. You shouldn't mix any of these. Please enjoy, and now, if you please, get your filthy hide out of my Common Room."

She left in silence, shoving everything into her bag, slung low at her hip. Draco watched, amazed. He needed to write his mother again, _How the bloody hell am I supposed to know how to help her if she becomes one of Blaise's junkies?!_

Hermione went back to her room, took a purple pill, unsure of this whole thing, but desperate for some uninterrupted, unhaunted sleep, and got into bed. She didn't even feel it when she drifted off to sleep…


	5. Chapter 5

**Commonality**

Draco watched her for weeks; studying more with Nott, and paying more attention to her during classes and meals. She was never really there. For him it was like watching her move around every day, unaware of the passage of time, wearing a mask. She spoke up less in class, but studied just as hard, but then again, he'd caught glimpses of her staring at her hands in the library, like something about them was slightly amazed and mostly disgusted by them. She still limped a little, but it was less noticeable than her habit of constantly tugging her sleeves down. He remembered her old mannerism of spell casting in class, of shaking her sleeves down to reveal her porcelain wrists and a bit of forearm, and the tensing of muscle and veins as she flourished her wand, along with the self-assured smirk that always graced her face as she did it. Now she would look at her arms, tug her sleeves down until they touched her thumbs, and only flourished her wand as much as the spell required, her impertinent and cocky style was gone. He had decided in the last few weeks of observing this that he hated it.

He had continued writing back and forth with his mother, mostly asking her advice on how to approach Hermione, though her name was never mentioned, and trying to build up his courage to do it. He could only imagine it ending worse because he'd been so terrible to her for years, that she would immediately reject him. It would probably end in her making a scene that would get him in trouble. It was getting to him. His frustration and curiosity about her was starting to not only irritate, but dislodge him a bit from his natural routine. He continued to watch her, and every time she caught him at it, he would look away, or sneer, but without the harsh hatred of before. He was walking a fine line between trying to care, without caring, and it was maddening. He'd begun having dreams about her, as she had once been. In the dream, she was running across the grounds from the Quidditch pitch, her hair flowing behind her in the sun and the wind. Then he would watch her face change, and realized she was running towards him in fear, running from something, and he stood unmovable as a black cloaked figure threw her to the ground in front of him. He kept waking up in a cold sweat at the instant that she cried out, her robes ripping from her shoulders. His appearance was beginning to suffer for it, a fine purple haze developing below his eyes, and he too found himself casting a cloaking spell on his face in the morning. He'd always had trouble sleeping, and this girl, worrying about her, was definitely not helping. He was sitting in the Head's Common Room with Nott, when Theodore's voice broke him from his reverie.

"Draco, mate?" Draco blinked hard and looked at his friend, trying to register if he was being spoken to. Nott shook his head and chuckled a little as he spoke again,

"Draco, you need a drink. Whatever has been bothering you is going to your head. It's a Friday; shall we start the weekend off right?" He pulled out a bottle of Firewhisky from a cabinet in the corner and cast a refilling spell on it, while setting two glasses on the table. Draco smirked, _This is what I need, to relax._

Draco lost track of time, but when he came to, he found himself on the Head's bathroom floor, his face pressed into the cold marble floor, and one arm reaching towards the toilet. He didn't need any help figuring out that he'd probably been sick. He sat up slowly, the room spinning slightly, and was suddenly stopped by what he saw:

It was Hermione in the huge tub.

She was sitting with back facing him, pulling her wet hair off her shoulders to wash it. He was transfixed, watching the back of her neck and the delicacy of the tiny wet curls at her nape. It only took a moment for him to take in the whole picture, and then he immediately noticed what was amiss: Her arms. The porcelain perfect skin that he'd once secretly admired from across classrooms was marred, bright red, raised lines crisscrossing her wrists and inner forearms, and the occasional word carved into it. One was still faintly trickling blood down her wet arm: **Mudblood**. When she pulled her hair away from her face he could see that she had pierced her ears, he could see several small silver rings through her cartilage, and most of them fresh because they were swollen and red. He lifted himself off the floor silently, and approached slowly, waiting for her to dunk under the water and rinse her hair. When she sat up again, she was up to her shoulders in the water, her head leaning back onto the same cold marble floor, and he could see her face had healed in the last month now, her cloaking charm wasn't on. He silently removed his own; he knew he looked like he'd been in a fight with the dark purple circles under his eyes and the disarray of his clothes since he'd passed out on the floor. His mouth was dry, but he licked his lips and tried his best, hating the little crack in his whisper when he finally spoke:

"Granger, don't freak out--" But it was too late, she had turned to face him and was visibly shaking in the water and trying to hide in the bubbles. He raised his open hands, in surrender, and tried again, speaking a little louder and slower,

"Granger, I'm not trying to hurt you, ok?! I just want to talk to you." She shot him a suspicious glare and spoke with a bitterness he'd never heard from her before. He'd heard it in his own voice before, it was hard, cold, and it bit hard.

"Then what the fuck are you doing in my bathroom while I'm naked in the bath?!"

"I had passed out on the floor in here, Nott and I got drunk, and I must have gotten sick, ok?" She smirked. He knew it put him more on her level that he had something to be embarrassed about. She kept her arms under the water and curtly asked him to leave the room so she could get dressed if all he really wanted was to talk. She told him to wait in the Common Room; that Theodore was in his room passed out. He took one last look as he walked out of the door, of her back as she rose out of the water. He swore he could feel his heart rate increase and a lump develop quickly in his throat, but he didn't know what brought it on. He instead sat on his favorite long black velvet couch in the Common Room and tried to calm himself down, trying to map out what to say to her so as not to scare her, or worse, piss her off. He remembered the punch in second year vividly, and was not looking forward to explaining a broken nose to Poppy, again.

When she came out, her hair was brushed over her shoulders so that it was straight and dangling just above her hips; dressed in a Muggle hoodie sweater and exceedingly baggy sweatpants, carrying an enormous pair of scissors loosely in her left hand. She sat directly across from him on the floor and stared at him, her pupils a little dilated, she was high on something Blaise had given her. He could see it. She looked away for a moment and distractedly pulled a chunk of hair into her face as she spoke to him,

"So what do you want to talk about?" He faltered a little, having forgotten how direct she could be sometimes and knowing that it was the drugs giving her the courage to talk like this again, otherwise she'd been meek lately.

"You." She looked back up at him through her hair again, an eyebrow elevated,

"What about me?" He paused, and looked down at his feet as he spoke, afraid to look her in the face as he said this,

"I know what happened to you. I want to help." When he looked back up, he saw her huddling her knees to her chest, not looking at him, but off into the distance, and shivering a little. He got off the couch and lowered himself to talk to her, careful not to touch her or scare her,

"I want to help, I'm not going to tell anyone, I just want to make sure you're…ok." She looked at him hard, direct eye contact, something she'd been avoiding with everyone since it happened, and she stared into his eyes, as if they would somehow tell her whether or not he was sincere. Apparently she thought he was, because she pressed the scissors into his hand, and turned her back to him suddenly, then looked back and gestured to a spot on her shoulder,

"Cut it. Here." He sat open mouthed for a second, staring at her, her hair, and the large scissors in his hand, and his voice had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it,

"But I like your hair, why cut it?" She turned again, and stared at him; this time more amazed, and then turned around again. She was looking at the floor when she spoke quietly,

"Because _he_ pulled me by it, and I don't want it anymore."

"Oh," he paused again, staring at the scissors, his mother's message ringing in his ears, _do anything_, and then tapped her lightly on the shoulder

"So where am I cutting this again?"

She turned up, and smirked despite her cheeks being wet with tears, and indicated a spot a few inches below her shoulders. He cut the first chunk right where he finger was, and then smoothed down her wet hair so that he could cut a straight line across. The sound of cutting hair was interesting to him, a soft metallic sound and the texture of her hair in his hand was something like wet, squishy silk. He watched as the cut off hair dried on the floor into tiny circles and spirals curls, the ten or so inches he'd cut off covering the floor, and what was left was curling tightly around her face. Again those little delicate curls on the nape of her neck were exposed, and he found himself staring at them. She broke his reverie when she turned around suddenly and looked at him, not quite in the eye, but almost,

"Why do you look like you haven't been sleeping?"

"Because I haven't been."

"Why not?"

"Nightmares."

"Me too."

They sat in silence for a little while, both thinking separately about the things they had in common, and at midnight she showed him out and headed to bed. He walked silently through the corridors back to his own House Common Room, and finally fell onto his bed, asleep as soon as he hit the comforter. And they both had strange dreams that night: Hermione dreaming of the sincerity she had seen in his eyes and Draco dreaming about the quiet tone of her voice and the curls on the back of her neck. The next day, when the school was abuzz with gossip about her haircut, and the Patil twins were speculating the reasons for such a drastic change in her appearance, they shared a little smirk across Snape's Potions classroom, they both knew something that no one else did, and they were relishing in it.

Both were different people in different Houses, both thinking the same thing:

_Secrets can be fun_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Tactile Theatre**

Hermione was sitting in the library, watching the pages of the book she was reading ripple, and the delicate tingling sensation in her fingertips as she slid them under the words. She knew that her every sensation was being magnified by the drugs, but she had figured out the exact dose that allowed her to be blissfully out of reality, but not so far out that she couldn't pay attention in class. It often made professor's faces go through subtle color changes; McGonagall had a horrible habit of appearing to be plaid just like her dresses. She found herself sometimes touching everything delicately and suddenly sensing things within objects that she'd never felt before, for example, warm spots on the Potions classroom tables where certain potions had been spilled and left warm residues that Hermione felt she sensed in colors. Meals were equally interesting, her food as tactile and fascinating as everything else; the subtleties of tastes and flavors were amazing.

The library was warm for January, but she could feel the heat from the fireplace rolling onto her skin in waves, the warm musty smell of old parchment book pages, and the light sound of other students' whispers in the aisles of books. She dipped her quill, stood to put her books back and prepare to leave. She was wandering in an aisle near the far corner of the library, trying to remember where she'd gotten her book, when someone caught her eye. She replaced her book and tucked her now tight short curls behind one ear, and walked as softly as possible toward him. She could see that he was reading, and hear the soft deep tone of his voice as he just barely whispered the words to himself, and smell the light scent of sage soap from his skin. For some reason, he didn't scare her. She was sure she didn't trust him either, but the fact of his being male didn't terrify her. She thought maybe she could learn to trust him, if he didn't do anything to hurt her and continued to act as he had the other night. He was understanding, he hadn't said too much, or asked any questions, just offered to help. She had always perceived that the world was black and white to him, that things were right or wrong, and that if he offered help that was all he was offering. But something about her mood today, something about her desire to feel everything, made her reach out and play her fingertips into the silk white hair hanging down onto the back of his neck. He turned with a start, and at first his eyes held anger, then surprise, then confusion.

Draco turned to face whoever had startled him, the tiny light touch sending shivers up his spine and making his heart pound in his chest, somewhere between fear and excitement. He rounded on her; there she was, standing there fascinated with her hand still hovering in the space between them. He spoke quietly, partly because they were in the library, partly because he did not want anyone to hear them, but mostly because he was amazed that she had touched him.

"What the bloody hell was that for Granger?!"

"I just wanted to know what it felt like. Everything feels fascinating today." He chose to ignore that she was at least a little high, and instead chose to talk about school,

"You finish your Potions essay?" She nodded, but she was staring at his face, and it was making him nervous, so he spoke up,

"What exactly are you looking at Granger?" She spoke matter-of-factly and softly disarming him completely,

"You." Her hand reached up, only a little tentative, and she placed a fingertip, feather-light, on his cheek. He was too busy staring at her face, the delicate opening of her mouth, and the honey color of her eyes. He felt it again, his heart pounding in his chest, and turned away quickly, wrenching his face away from her hand. When he looked back after putting his book back up on its high shelf, she was gone, but a note was in his open hand on a tiny scrap of parchment:

_Common Room. Talk. Midnight. Bring homework if you want. Nott._

He knew that she had written the name at the end to mean that bringing homework would distract the Head Boy, but it almost looked as if Nott had written the note. He slid it in his pocket, and walked back out into the open area of the library, his mind racing. Concentrating on anything for the remainder of the day was completely out of the question, it was impossible. Something about her touching him made his heart race, and his mind run at such speeds that every thought became blurred. He felt as flushed as if she had kissed him, but she hadn't. The thought crossed his mind for only a split second that he might have wanted her to, but he brushed it away immediately. She was…Granger, and a Muggleborn, a Gryffindor and most importantly, she hadn't known what she was doing. She was high, presumably avoiding reality because of what happened to her. Kissing anyone, especially him, was probably completely out of the question. These thoughts zoomed around, but none, not even those of his schoolwork, was able to stick long enough that he could think anything completely through. It was maddening. He was the type that liked to think everything through, and now she'd gone and ruined his thought process. He swore under his breath, and sat running his fingers through his hair at the library table before going back to the dungeons to try to get some sleep. He didn't want to lose sleep just because he stayed out late to see Granger tonight.

Hermione was walking back to the Head's Dorm, tracing her fingers along the corridor wall, feeling the rough natural coolness of the stones, all the while smiling and singing quietly to herself. She had touched him, proving that she was not afraid of him at all. His hair had been feather light, and fine, tickling her palm and his cheek had been warm and soft. Nothing about his actual person was as cold as his eyes used to be, and even they seemed to have softened. They were still blue gray, but the steely, calculated ice in them was no longer there, and when she sometimes caught him looking in her direction, she seemed to see a sage green aura about him, and his eyes held what might be called a certain amount of warmth. It surprised her at first, but the warmth was tempered with an expression that looked like guarded confusion, and this made her feel better about it all. He was thinking about something, but it couldn't possibly be her. She had nothing to fear from him, because he probably wanted as little to do with her as possible. She was so blissful in this line of thought that she didn't even see Harry following behind her and watching her every move.

She slipped into the Head's Common Room without looking behind her, and closed the door just seconds before Harry could have gotten a grip on the door and followed her in. She had played with fate, but she didn't even know it. Harry had been watching her and following her for days. He hadn't seen everything that had happened in the library, but he'd seen Hermione reach out and touch Malfoy's cheek, but that was enough to fill him with jealousy and rage. After all, he'd been friends with her for all those years, and he'd gone on to claim her physically, and now she was spending an unnatural amount of time with their worst enemy.

But she witnessed none of this. She was in her room, changing into her pajamas and grabbing a blanket. She settled herself in front of the fire with her bag and only taking a moment to appreciate for the thousandth time the texture of parchment before starting what little homework she had left to finish. Nott came in a moment later and waved a hand in front of her face—she must have looked dazed—and spoke harshly, annoyed,

"That Potter friend of yours is hovering by the door, why don't you let him in or tell him to bugger off. Either way, I don't like having the saint hanging around my bloody fuckin' door."

Hermione froze; but only for a moment. Then she bolted. She grabbed everything, no longer feeling the warmth of the fire or the plush fabric of her blanket or her interest in her homework and running for her door. She locked it swiftly; all she could feel was ice in her veins.

Nott stood there shocked, but just shook his head, muttered something about crazy mudbloods, and moved on to his room to face the mountain of homework he had to do. It didn't surprise him when Draco knocked on the portrait around 10; he'd been turning up a lot lately. Theodore figured something was off in Draco's life and he was looking for a reprieve with an equal and away from Slytherin Common Room. Nott knew how annoying Pansy could get, and Blaise's cottage industry was no more enlightening than watching snails shrivel up, so he could understand Draco's escapism. It did occur to him that he and Draco had never been especially close friends before and he wondered why for a moment, but he'd noticed enough change in the other boy since his father's incarceration in Azkaban to assume that he wanted a change of scenery, and this change included friends. Draco came in, dropped his bag solidly on the floor in front of the fire and pulled a bottle of Firewhisky out of his cloak. Nott didn't argue. They worked quietly for an hour or two, sipping on it, and then relaxed into talking and not working much at all. Draco found himself reading the same sentence over and over again in his Transfiguration textbook and not really caring. Nott suddenly spoke up,

"So what do you think is up with her?" he gestured with his head towards Hermione's door, slurring his words only a little, but his heavy eyelids suggested he was more intoxicated than he sounded. Draco was feeling warm, and his mouth worked before he could really stop it.

"I think someone hurt her, and now she's afraid." He tried to pass it off as a blasé statement with a shrug, but Nott seemed to be seriously considering these words before he nodded and spoke quietly,

"It makes sense. Someone really hurt my little sister last summer—dad nearly killed the kid—and she clammed up like that too. It's scary to think about that happening to a girl. I'd hate to be…a…girl." Nott had laid his head on the arm of the couch for just a moment, and immediately passed out. Draco knew this was his chance; he'd been worried since he walked in and felt something wrong on the air, so he stood as quickly as his legs would obey him and staggered to her door. He knocked softly, and finding it locked, called out quietly,

"Hey, Granger, it's me. What's wrong? Open up."

It was a moment before he heard a soft shuffling, and the heavy lock turning in the door. She peeked out through the inch she'd opened the door, and he could see she had been crying and was visibly shaking. His playful smirk immediately fell, and he showed his concern openly in his eyes. He had a harder time veiling his emotions when he had been drinking. He was definitely not drunk yet, but he wasn't sober either. She opened the door wider when she saw the sincerity in his face, and stepped aside to let him in. He did not hesitate in wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her close, but not too close, and squeezing her lightly to show that he cared. He did not want to scare her either, so he kept his grip loose, escapable. She fell into it, her knees buckling beneath her renewed fear, heart pounding, and her tears threatening to come back. Draco was almost pulled to his knees by the force of her fall, but continued to hold onto her, feeling like it was the right thing to do. She eventually stopped trembling and stood straight up again, looking up at him. She hadn't cried, he was impressed, but her bottom lip was still shivering a bit, and he swore he could actually hear her heart battling to escape even her body in fear. She spoke quietly, pulling her hands away from his neck to wring them together, but not removing herself from the circlet of his arms just yet.

"_He_ was here," she shivered and stepped out of his grasp, "he was here. Nott said he was waiting…hovering outside the door…He's not supposed to be here. I can't see him. He can't come here, he can't he can't he can't'…"

She was shaking again now, not looking him in the eyes, and pulling down hard on her sleeves. He hated watching her twist her flesh like he knew she had been, hated seeing her open wounds the other night, hated knowing that Blaise was letting her fill herself with that awful shit. But then again, he didn't know how to make it better. He had no claim to her, and considering the implications of those words against what she'd been through, he didn't want to. It was all so confusing, this caring. Draco found his head was spinning lightly, but he was determined to stay standing, not fall down, and not show any weakness to her. _She needs me to be strong right now,_ he thought, _Mother would tell me that, she needs me to support her_. Draco led the violently shivering girl over to her bed and pulled down the covers, noting that she was more sober than he'd seen her in weeks. Hermione shivered harder, thinking that he was trying to take her to bed, and then realized that he was tucking her in, thinking she was somehow chilled. She climbed in, and he pulled the covers up to her chin, and pulled her desk chair to her bedside. He whispered,

"Do you want me to stay? I can make sure nothing happens, that no one comes in and disturbs your sleep." She seemed to freeze at his slightly slurred speech and then spoke in a rush, all one breath, as if scared:

"But how will your absence go unnoticed in your own common room? And how will you get out in the morning without Theodore noticing? And what will you watch?" She hesitated slightly, "Will you promise not to hurt me while I sleep?"

Draco recoiled slightly, insulted, but as soon as he saw his angry face reflected in her eyes, he softened. He sighed heavily, and spoke no louder than a heavy breath articulated into words:

"I only meant for my presence to be a comfort Granger. Although now that I say it aloud, it does sound rather ridiculous considering who I am," he chuckled, and hesitated, "No, Granger, I will not stay all night, but only until you fall asleep, so as not to get caught. And I would never hurt you like _he_ did…I may be…a bastard…but I'm not...like that."

He had struggled through the last statement, and as he looked up he noticed that her caramel eyes were starting to swim between the dark hazes of her eyelashes. He reacted before he could think, and as the first tears squeezed free, he reached forward and swept them lightly from her cheeks. She flinched at the first instant of touch, but quickly relaxed into the feather-light touch of his two fingertips against her peach skin. He felt her exhale softly, silently, relieved. She leaned back into her pillows, snuggling down into the covers, and looked him square in the eyes. He could see her cheeks rise from below the horizon of tightly tucked up blankets and knew that she was smiling at him. He returned it honestly, no need for a smirk that could be misconstrued, glad for the dim light in the room. She couldn't see it, but Draco found himself blushing at the idea of her smiling at him. _How embarrassing_, he thought.

It was well after midnight when he was sure she'd been asleep for at least an hour, and he padded silently out of her room, and out in to the corridors of Hogwarts, back to his own dorm, bed, and thoughts.

Draco laid down thinking about her sly, half-hidden smile from under the blankets, and the heat that had risen into his own cheeks at her expression. He found himself tempering his own confused emotions toward her against the blinding anger that he felt against whoever had hurt her. He understood that, anger was easy. The problem with his simple anger was that it led to the harder questions like 'Who was it?' and 'Why do I care so much?' Needless to say, it took him a while to fall asleep.

Hermione found herself dreaming of walking towards a figure in the snow—she knew instinctively it was Draco, thought she could not see him clearly, or tell why her dream-self was walking to him. She just _knew_ it was him, and _knew_ it felt safe in that moment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Meiosis**

***

Hermione stopped taking the drugs, mostly because they weren't working anymore, but also because she was too embarrassed to return to the Slytherin Common Room to ask for more. _To hell with it. To hell with Zabini_. Her anger bubbled up and her mind tossed in its two cents: _and to hell with Harry too. Damn him for doing this to you. Friends are supposed to care for and protect each other._ A tear escaped her eyes at this thought, but she brushed it aside in favor of overwhelming anger. Anger, at least, was easier to understand than trying to avoid reality. She'd had her vacation from the real world, but now her rational brain was starting to override her grief and her self deprecation. She couldn't blame herself, or delude herself any longer.

It was February; the snow had turned to solid sheets on the ground, the wind cut viciously through clothing, and Hermione decided it was time to start preparing for her N.E.W.T.S. as popular rumor was mistaken in the idea that she had started shortly after receiving her first Hogwarts letter. She got out of bed, where she'd been lazing after classes that day, and headed to the library to start studying for the theoretical portions of exams. She already knew that the practical half of it would be fine; she rarely forgot a spell or charm once she'd learned its proper pronunciation and wand movements. She brushed her fingers along the stone wall, enjoying the abrasive tickling against her skin and suddenly the feeling of his cheek filled her mind. Draco's face had been smooth and warm, the slightest sandpaper texture along his jaw, where only one of her fingers had traveled as he had pulled away that day. It was an indistinct memory, soft around the edges in her mind. She shook her head—those drugs had clouded her perception of the world in a way that she liked at the time, but looking back, she realized she preferred her usual rational, crystal clear take on the world around her. She needed clarity to stay in control—of her anger, of her body, of the rest of her life. Her determination was her only source of personal power—it was the only former strength she still believed in. After all, her knowledge and magical talent hadn't protected her—she needed something baser to lead her—downright stubbornness seemed like the best option. No one could take her will from her; she wouldn't bloody well let them.

She entered the library, and found herself striding with confidence on this ground just like her old self. She was still safe here. Her table had lately been occupied by a group of fourth year Ravenclaw girls, but they quickly vacated when they saw her coming. It was her territory, and although it wasn't a very big space, or particularly powerful, the fact that it was hers and hers alone made it very important to her. She organized her books by subject and reviewed the syllabi so she would know what she needed to study the most. After an hour or so, the chair across the table from her scraped back against the floor, and her mind ran through the possibilities before she looked up. It could be Nott, who did sometimes sit across from her in public to discuss Head's business. It may be Draco, although that was unlikely given the public venue, but her stomach fluttered a little thinking of him and how often they talked now in the evenings. He had yet to ask her any questions about what happened and she didn't ask about his father—more often they talked of school work and future plans—it was their truce, and she liked it that way.

When she did look up however, it was Ron. Every time he managed to catch her in what seemed like "spare time" he plied her with questions about why she never spoke to him or Harry anymore, why she ate so far away at meals, wanting desperately to know what they'd done wrong to deserve her scorn. This time he seemed to start off with a different tactic:

"What did he do, Hermione? Because I've thought about it good and bloody long, and I know I didn't do a damn thing."

Her head spun for a moment at how close to the mark Ron had come, and her mouth poured open before she could think, the anger was taking over again,

"Ask him. You make him deal with the full consequences of what he did to me."

She was throwing her books back in her bag, and storming out just before she finished hissing the sentence from within her clenched jaw. Humorously, all she could think of was that she wanted a private library when she got her own house, so no one could invade her space. She settled herself instead in the Head's Common Room, and took to summoning books she needed from the library out the window. She found out the next day from Madam Pince that she'd almost taken a first year out the window by a copy of Hogwarts, A History, and that from then on, summoning of books was forbidden. When Nott came in later with a freshly-showered Draco, she was again struck with the full-force of his sage soap, and the fruity smell of something he was chewing. She didn't budge form the table, instead conjured another chair for Malfoy and continued working, as if ignoring their noisy entrance. The fruit smell hit peak when he drew nearer, and he set down half of a mango next to his books, thus identifying the source. They all studied in silence, Nott growing fidgety first after about three hours. It was nearing 11 o'clock, and he wanted to go to bed, but the pureblood in him told him not to leave his guest alone to go to bed, and especially in the company of Granger. Theodore made another noisy show of gathering his things and stowing them in his bag, hoping that Draco would catch on and excuse himself quickly, but instead he looked up and said,

"I'm on a roll with this essay, so I'll just stay 'til I've exhausted it, but feel free to retire for the night. Goodnight Theo, mate."

Nott walked up the stairs to his room shaking his head at Draco's determination sometimes, knowing that he was leaving Draco alone with the only other person he competed against for best marks. He was worried, but not enough to distract him from the idea of his bed and a good night's sleep—something he knew he'd be getting less and less of as N.E.W.T.s approached. Draco and Hermione sat in relative silence for almost an hour, the only interruption being the quite scratching of their quills and the occasional page turn. He personally found himself surprised at how comfortable a silence it was, and she was secretly waiting for the other shoe to drop. She was content with their quiet time alone, but she as so afraid that one of them would speak or move and shatter the whole thing and she would go back to being afraid…although the more she thought about Draco, and her comfort with him, she realized he just didn't scare her. He ought to have presented a rather large threat, considering first what she assumed he still thought about her and her blood, second what he knew about her recently that she prefer he take to the grave, or third the fact that she kept peering through her eyelashes at him while writing and feeling the most delirious desire to touch his face again, or his hair. She had a thought quick a lightening strike that she wanted to kiss his mouth, but just as speedily abolished it. Considering facts one and two, he'd never let her, or want her to kiss him. Unfortunately, when she lifted her arms above her head a few moments later to stretch out a knot in her shoulder, and let her hand drop back down to the tabletop absentmindedly, her hand touched his. It was a speedy and almost non-existent touch, the mere whisper of his knuckles against her open palm, but it felt to her suddenly like her whole arm had broken out in gooseflesh and her stomach was doing gymnastics inside her ribs. He looked up rather suddenly, as if shocked, or maybe equally affected, she couldn't tell, and ended up looking her straight in the face. He whispered, afraid to truly break the silence with his normal tone of voice,

"How have you been holding up lately?...i know you haven't been down to see Zabini and I was merely wondering if there were any aftereffects you might need help with…?" His hesitancy made one corner of her mouth move up just a fraction of an inch.

"I have been fine, especially without Zabini's help. Sometimes, pure stubbornness can get a person through more than they imagined possible."

He nodded satisfactorily, and he returned a tiny smirk to match hers, another of what he had come to call their "mirror moments." He was only slightly nervous at rubbing off on her. She seemed to be leaning forward across the table and examining something, but when he first looked up at her he thought for a split second she might kiss him. he brushed it quickly away—she was not the girl to be hoping for kisses from—and he was sure that the vast majority of the reasoning for that was not her blood, but her recent experience, and that he could not violate her space or her trust in any way. He realized after shaking his head and looking at her again, that she was reading his essay, upside down, from across the table. He wondered what she found interesting, and since they both appeared to be working on the same monster essay for Snape, he leaned forward and looked over hers as well, or at least he would have had he not been confronted and distracted by the subtle smell of her soap…a kind of honey and vanilla scent that tickled his nose. He took a deep, but quiet, inhalation; pulling as much of it into his senses as possible. He decided he liked the way she smelled, but he had to lean away from her to avoid the temptation of another deep breath, or worse, tucking his nose into the crook of her neck, which he was presently imaging himself doing.

"Shall we take a break, Granger, to think over what we've done and come back fresh to edit?"

"Excellent proposal Malfoy, would you like a spot of tea?" She had risen and was entering the small galley kitchen off the common room. He was impressed to see that the cabinets were actually stocked with small food items, tea and such like, instead of just alcohol as Nott had fervently wished at the beginning of term. He thought momentarily,

"Lemon, please, if you've got it…"

"We do indeed. Although at this hour I may be better off just having black tea and continuing to work off the caffeine."

"Actually, that sounds smashing. Could I have a black tea instead?"

"Anything in it?"

"No thank you, Granger."

She sat in the chair opposite him a moment later with her teacup balancing nimbly on her kneecap, and stared quietly and comfortably at the dancing fire in the hearth. She pulled the unoccupied knee up to her chest and rested her chin on it. She seemed comfortable enough, and he'd been thinking about it so much lately, the query just sort of slipped out of his mouth before he had any time to really filter it,

"Could we please talk about what happened Granger?" His own mouth hung open for a moment as if shocked at its own rebellion, before he continued in a less abrupt manner,

"I just wish I knew how to best help…and I can't really help without knowing what happened. Well, that is, I don't know if something I say or do is going to terrify you at any moment, and I'd really like to know what not to do…"

He trailed off, frustrated with himself for being so inarticulate and beginning to almost stammer towards the end of his last sentence. Malfoys simply did not stammer. She was looking him over, taking in his embarrassment, but also his earnestness and she supposed that counting his discomfort as sincerity was the closest thing to honesty she'd seen in a while, and decided to tell him everything…well, almost everything. He saw her take a deep breath, and her mouth opened slightly, the signal for the onset of speech, but he couldn't help noticing how she moved her teacup and pulled up her other knee, cradling her body against itself, or how deeply he shoulders were slumped the moment she began speaking in a quiet, flat tone.

"I thought I fancied him, Malfoy. He invited me to what I knew was a currently unused classroom, and I went thinking naïvely that perhaps he wanted us to be alone, and that he would talk to me in a manner I was hoping for at the time. I was foolishly daydreaming of perhaps one chaste kiss like an idiotic schoolgirl. Instead, he took the lot. He grabbed me from outside the classroom by my hair and dragged me inside, before I knew it was really him. I thought I was being attacked by a stranger for a moment or two. And I failed to defend myself, I couldn't scream, or fight back, or run, I just froze…"

She paused to wipe tears from her face, choking back the beginning sounds of s sob, when Draco was suddenly in front of her armchair, pulling her by the waist to kneel on the carpet with him, and cradling her against his chest, she let the sobs free. He felt them tear through her, seemingly starting at her toes and ripping up through her body until they escaped raggedly from her mouth. Her short hair was sticking to her face in the wetness of her tears, and he wiped them both from her eyes repeatedly. It was his hands on her face that sparked her back to the conversation, she had to finish telling him, she had to tell someone, and at this moment in time, she trusted him the most.

"I have to finish. You have to know." Or at least that's what he thought she said while clearing the tears and sniffles away.

"Shh Granger, it's perfectly fine if you need to stop. you continue when you're ready." He had pulled her into his lap, and wasn't going to relinquish his comforting hold on her until she was done needing him there. That's what he told himself, of his honorable intentions, but he was also very aware of her smell, and the texture of her hair tickling his chin and one of her soft hands swirled around his neck and her fingertips resting against the nape of his neck, sending gooseflesh down his spine. She stopped crying, pulled her shoulders square and continued, but wouldn't look him in the face as she spoke.

"He put me on the desk, it was the first time I faced him. he held me down, his fingers were digging into my shoulder,"—Draco remembered the fingerling bruises and felt anger rising in his chest—"and then he pulled my legs apart and…" she choked and started sobbing again. He didn't need her to elaborate from there; he knew what had happened and was fairly sure that if she continued talking about it, he might just spring up and go hunt down and murder the bastard. But she did continue,

"When I started to fight back, when I realized what he was going to do, he hit me. He hurt me—but he was supposed to be my friend!" She was sobbing again, the words coming out between choking painful sounds and an abundance of fresh tears. "I had imagined that if he and I started dating we would get there eventually, I had dreamed of it, and instead he stole all my trust and left me broken and defiled, so no one will ever have me after he ruined me!"

Her shame was tangible in the room, he could feel it weighing on his chest. He began rocking her back and forth and whispering meaningless comforts into her ear. There was nothing else he could do at the moment, and he was still trying to comprehend what she'd meant…'he was supposed to be my friend!'…He growled when his mind came to a conclusion. It was then that she looked up at him, but still not looking him in the eye like she used to—the direct eye contact that used to make him feel transparent and glued to his seat—this was a confused, and reticent staring at his cheek. He couldn't hold it in any longer, he ground out his next words so full of malice that she pulled back from his embrace just enough that it hurt him. He was scaring her, as much as he didn't want to, but he stop his anger from pouring out either,

"Waesly did this to you, I'll gut him like the pig that his is." It was a harsh statement, spit between his teeth somewhere between a hiss and a continued growl. He sounded feral. She shook her head, and even went so far as to put her fingertips tentatively on his cheek.

"No, Draco, no he didn't. Ron doesn't even know what happened. I swear." He could tell from her tone that she was telling the truth, but he demanded regardless,

"Look me in the eye and tell me that Granger." She finally did. Tears still clinging to her thick lashes and sticking them together, and a look of fear and honesty in her eyes, she spoke so softly as to almost be inaudible,

"Ron did not do this. He is innocent." She seemed to be trying to tell him the truth with her eyes, but unable to say it aloud, and then she watched his jaw tighten, and she could actually hear him grinding his teeth together, which he was doing to keep himself from shouting and scaring her further. She was still backed away from him on his lap.

"Potter." The same hissed, death-cold tone as before.

Her whole body started to shake as soon as he said it, as if the name itself could manifest all her fears and he had to fight to keep his own hands from shaking and forming tight fists. Instead he concentrated on pulling her close again, slowly, and running his open palms smoothly over her spine, up and down like his mother had always done to calm him. He would not act on this knowledge tonight; it would only end up damaging her further. She wasn't ready to expose Potter for the evil prick he was, and Draco wasn't ready to make her stand up just yet.

"I won't say his name again, Hermione, I promise. I won't say a word until you're ready to have my support in decrying him. Not a word, on my mother…but when you are ready, and he is found out, I hope they crucify him for what he did to you."

She was shaking still, but not crying any longer, only listening to him and trying to calm herself down. He then remembered something else she said, and challenged her,

"And Hermione, you were wrong. He didn't break you; you're still here, trying to keep living. That makes you incredibly strong." She looked up at him again,

"I didn't mean he broke my spirit Malfoy, I meant he made me…dirty…undesirable…shameful, for the rest of my life I will be damaged goods and impure!" Her anger was rising, it was evident in her tone, but also a deep sadness that he couldn't completely comprehend.

"What do you mean, exactly? It wasn't your fault, so how can you call yourself those hateful things, as if you asked for this to happen?!"

"Draco, I meant that he took my purity, no one else will ever want me."

The proverbial light bulb finally switched on. Potter had taken what was supposed to be a pure and wonderful thing, and sullied it, he had taken her first time and rent it all to pieces and with it, her sense of self, her pride, and the 'purity' society dictated that she ought to maintain. The horrid little prick was going to pay dearly.

"You shouldn't be ashamed—he stole something precious that you had not yet offered—but that by no means makes you impure or shameful Hermione." He was in awe for a moment at how easily her given name slipped from his mouth, as if they'd been addressing each other thusly forever. He swallowed hard, and again his mouth revolted before he had time to stop it,

"And I know someone will want you again—although this time, it needs to be only on your terms, and not anyone else's. When you're ready for that later on, it will happen, but certainly not before. You're not damaged or broken, you merely need to allow yourself time to completely heal, then you can be even stronger than you were before."

She couldn't tell why she did it, it came from wanting to show him that she was glad he cared at all, a gesture of trust and respect, but she kissed him. A delicate sweep of her lashes against his cheekbone and he realized how close she had been the instant before he watched her close her delicately purpled eyelids and bridge the gap to kiss him. It was tiny, fluttering as her breath across his lips, but slow and longer than he expected it to last. A sincere and honest kiss on his mouth, coming from the only person he'd had any interest in kissing lately, and thought he couldn't.

Hermione Granger was kissing him, and he found himself softly and slowly responding, always taking her lead, his mind humming when she tightened her grip on the back of his neck, he lifted one of his hands from her lower back and ghosted it up her jaw line to bury it in her curls. Merlin, he'd wanted to touch her hair again for months now. He had secretly saved one perfect curl she'd had him cut of, but was afraid to touch it for fear of mussing it. When the kiss broke, they sat that way for a few moments, and then he picked her up, guiding her by the waist, and headed back to the table to finish their work. When she reached for his hand this time, he held it easily, and neither of them needed to speak.


End file.
